


A Cure in the Country

by Nightdog_Barks



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Friendship, Gen, Historical, Illnesses, Medical Procedures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-11
Updated: 2010-07-11
Packaged: 2017-10-18 07:46:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/186569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightdog_Barks/pseuds/Nightdog_Barks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Is there a prescription for friendship?  1,145 words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Cure in the Country

**Title:** A Cure in the Country  
 **Author:** [](http://nightdog-barks.livejournal.com/profile)[**nightdog_barks**](http://nightdog-barks.livejournal.com/)  
 **Characters:** House, Wilson, OFC. Gen.  
 **Rating:** G  
 **Warnings:** None.  
 **Spoilers:** No.  
 **Summary:** Is there a prescription for friendship? 1,145 words.  
 **Disclaimer:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **Author Notes:** The spark for this fic was a PBS documentary, [The Adirondacks](http://www.pbs.org/theadirondacks/), which aired in May of 2008; a section of the program focused on [Dr. Edward Trudeau](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_Livingston_Trudeau) and his many "cure cottages" for tubercular patients in the clear, clean air of Saranac Lake, New York. This is a historic AU, set in the earliest years of the 20th century.  
 **Beta:** My intrepid First Readers, with especial thanks to [](http://verbal-kint10.livejournal.com/profile)[**verbal_kint10**](http://verbal-kint10.livejournal.com/) and [](http://joe-pike-junior.livejournal.com/profile)[**joe_pike_junior**](http://joe-pike-junior.livejournal.com/).

  
 **A Cure in the Country**

  
"You have a new patient today, Dr. House," Nellie said. "Someone I think you might be interested in. His chart is on the top." She indicated the stack of medical folders with a vague wave of her hand.

"Really?" House growled. He snatched the uppermost chart and made a great show of studying it. "And why is that?"

Nellie ignored the dumb show. "He's a fellow physician," she replied. "From New Jersey -- one of those college towns."

"Teaneck? South Orange?" House slapped the folder shut and set it back on the stack. "Not collegiate enough. Princeton."

"Right on the third try, Doctor," Nellie said, and House glared at her. It didn't do any good; all she did was pick up the chart again and force it into his hands. "Your patient is waiting in Examination Room Two."

* * *

"Dr. _Wilson_ ," House announced loudly and in as obnoxious a tone as possible.

"Dr. House," came the soft reply. "I would say it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, but from everything I've heard about you I'm not sure that's the case."

House frowned -- an unexpected response, which meant he was actually going to have to _look_ at the patient. He lifted his eyes from the man's chart as he hooked his cane over the coatrack.

Calm brown eyes looked back at him, eyes set in a thin, pale face accented by high-arching cheekbones and heavy dark brows. The diagnosis was simplicity itself -- the pallor, the wasted appearance, the clear evidence of hemoptysis on the crimson-stained cotton handkerchief clutched in the man's left hand. House felt vaguely disappointed.

"And who's been telling you such libelous untruths?" he asked. He seated himself on the rolling exam stool and used his left leg to scoot himself closer. The iron casters made an alarmingly loud squealing sound, and House winced and made a mental note to tell Nellie to oil them.

"Dr. Lisa Cuddy," Dr. Wilson said.

House paused. For a moment he pretended to again peruse the medical chart he still held in his hands.

"Dr. Cuddy is a ... reputable source," he said at last. "How do you know her?"

"In Princeton," Dr. Wilson replied. "She has established a small practice there. When my illness was ... suspected, she spoke most highly of the esteemed diagnostician she had known at the University of Michigan." He coughed suddenly, bringing the stained handkerchief up to cover his mouth. House knew without looking at it that it bore fresh droplets of blood.

"You don't need a diagnostician," he said gruffly. "You're consumptive, that's plain enough. Pulmonary TB, by all the signs." House scooted backwards and made a notation on the chart. "The Greeks called it _phthisis_ ; Pliny the Elder recommended wolf's liver in wine -- "

"Along with the lard of a grass-fed sow or a broth of she-ass," the patient finished dryly. "I'm rather hoping that isn't the _normal_ bill of fare here."

Despite himself, House felt his lips quirking up in a smile.

"Broth of she-ass might still be on the menu at the Federal Inn," he allowed. "Word has it they haven't changed their dining options since the fall of Jericho."

"Then I would be grateful if in the future you reminded me never to eat there," Dr. Wilson answered, with a faint smile of his own. He carefully levered himself off of the examination table, each movement scrupulously slow and meticulous as if his bones were made of glass.

"Where are you staying?" House found himself asking.

Dr. Wilson, both of his feet planted firmly on the floor, pulled his coat about him as if warding off a chill.

"The Kessler House," he said quietly.

"I take it then that you are of the Jewish faith."

Dr. Wilson met his gaze. "Does that make a difference?"

House shook his head.

"It doesn't matter to me if you are Hebrew or Hottentot," he said. "Besides, lard will never be on the menu there." He threw open the exam room door as Dr. Wilson choked out a gasp of laughter behind him. "Speak with Nellie on the way out," he said. "I think I should see you once a week to begin with."

* * *

"Once a week?" Nellie murmured. House did not look around; he had long ago ceased to be startled by the nurse's seeming ability to be everywhere at once, especially where she was least expected.

"You disapprove?" House continued down the hallway, his rough-levered gait carrying him back to his cubbyhole of an office as Nellie bustled along behind. "Are you the doctor here now?"

"If I were, I would only be seeing your new patient once a _month_ ," she said. She stood in the door to his office and arched a quizzical eyebrow at him. "What's different about this one?"

House realized he still had Dr. Wilson's case folder in his hand. He dropped it on the desk, where it was immediately lost amongst the piles of unfiled paperwork, medical journals, and general correspondence.

"He possesses," House said, "a modicum of intelligence, unlike some others here I could name." Just as before, Nellie ignored the gibe, and House scowled at her.

"Petulance does not become you," she said mildly. "All I meant was that you should exercise a modicum of _caution_ in treating certain of your patients. When poor Miss Doyle passed away -- "

" _Mister_ Wilson is not _Miss_ Doyle," House snapped. "And _Miss_ Doyle suffered from other complaints." By God, had he been _drunk_ when he'd hired such an obstreperous woman? "No two cases are alike," he continued. "I refer you to our own founding phthisiologist, Dr. Trudeau. Diagnosed in '73, still well enough to run the Institute and dine with the Rockefellers and Vanderbilts thirty-two years later."

Nellie's eyes narrowed. "It is their charitable works that make Dr. Trudeau's Institute possible," she said. "The point of those dinners is -- "

"The point I'm trying to make," House interrupted, "is that the so-called _white plague_ is no longer the sentence of death it once was." He busied himself with clearing a space on his desk. "With the proper care, under sanitary conditions, Dr. Wilson could enjoy a lifespan close to his natural length of years."

Nellie studied him a moment longer. "I have never known you for a man of faith, Doctor," she said at last. When he did not answer, she turned away; House listened but did not look up as she crossed the hallway to attend to the front desk. He stared at the open case folder in front of him without really seeing it; his right leg was beginning to ache, a slow gnawing at the bone digging deeper every time. _Once a week_ , he thought, _dispense as directed._

"Not faith, Nellie," he murmured. "Necessity."

And with that, he picked up a pen and began to write.

~ fin

  
 _ **A Few Notes:**_  
More information about the cure cottages may be found [here](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cure_Cottages_of_Saranac_Lake). I know there was an online reference at one time (back in May, 2008) of Kessler House being one of the "Jewish cottages," but I couldn't find it again. :-(  
An historic site with lots of old Saranac Lake postcards and photographs is [here](http://www.bunksplace.com/postcards.html), and a fascinating account of a physician who practiced at Dr. Trudeau's sanitarium is [here](http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC2242069/pdf/tacca00016-0012.pdf). The latter file is a PDF.  
And, from the NY Times, [some of the famous patients](http://www.nytimes.com/1986/04/06/books/what-bartok-and-legs-diamond-had-in-common.html?&pagewanted=all). *g*


End file.
